


Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

by makesometime



Series: A Wilde Week 2020 [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: A Wilde Week 2020 (Rusty Quill Gaming), M/M, Memoirs, Old Married Couple, Post-Canon, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesometime/pseuds/makesometime
Summary: It’s five years before he can bring himself to pick up his pen, unstopper his ink and start to draft it out.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Series: A Wilde Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016722
Comments: 28
Kudos: 47
Collections: A Wilde Week 2020





	Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

**Author's Note:**

> _Day 2 - “Memory… is the diary that we all carry about with us.”_  
>  **Remembering** | Forgetting | **Recording**
> 
> Title from Hamilton, because as soon as I saw the prompt my mind went here immediately...

It’s five years before he can bring himself to pick up his pen, unstopper his ink and start to draft it out. 

There’s been offers. Offers upon offers with ridiculous sums attached to them. Some of them have been so outlandish that Oscar’s had to call Zolf in from another room just to show him and see his laugh. 

It’s reassuring, in its way, that Zolf is as unfazed by this whole charade as he is. It settles his mind before the doubts can even start to take root.

Oscar’s life used to be so based around others’ opinions of him that it felt like the only way to live. The only way to survive, and the only way to support his sense of self worth.

But after everything… 

The same people are vying for him now and he is set to ignore them until such time as it feels right because he doesn’t _need_ that anymore. There’s no stakes. At his desk in his office in his home with Zolf, tucked away from society’s eyes, the offer of gold has little to no meaning, and the acclaim even less so.

There’s only one person who he wants to impress now, and somehow he manages to do that just by being himself.

“You need anything?” Zolf asks from the doorway, as he’s setting out a blank sheet of parchment.

He doesn’t look up, rolling the pen between thumb and forefinger and then delicately setting it into the ink. “No, Zolf. Thank you. Maybe in an hour, depending how this goes.”

“Alright.” Zolf says around an audible smile, stepping back. “Good luck, Oscar.”

On that, he starts to write.

It is not perfect. His drafts have never been perfect, never in his life, but this one is exceptionally unstructured. But it flows, so beautifully, so lyrically, that it feels completely effortless.

He writes on that day for Sasha. For Grizzop. He tells the story of their lives, the instrumental part they played in saving the world and the fates that they went to willingly. The world will know that Grizzop died for his friends. He’d hate it.

(Oscar’s pen leaves a large ink spot at the end of the page and he shoots a look to the heavens, catching it with his blotter. “Good try.” He says, voice painfully fond.)

It takes him several weeks to even begin to plot a narrative, to structure it in such a way that doesn’t feel like he’s dumping the contents of years of his life on a paper and calling it good.

In that time he writes for Hamid, Azu and Cel. He writes for their families, for their loves, for their losses. He tells of the band of kobolds that turned against their oppressor and were there, through it all. He writes for Barnes, for Carter and tells of the eighteen months they relied upon each other as the world fell down for the first time since Japan.

He even mentions Bertie. Briefly.

It is the most elaborate piece of work he’s ever undertaken, even compared to some of his earlier exposés when he was just finding his feet. It goes beyond the poetry and prose he scribbled on ships between countries, in run-down hotels and in Japan, leaned against Zolf’s back in bed, sweat cooling on their skin, his mind full of images and inspiration.

His writing process has been private for so long that it is difficult to open it up to Zolf. He can see his husband’s interest warring with the desire to respect his privacy for the entire first week of his writing. But it never moves beyond quiet little enquiries about how the day went, or if there were any sticking points. Zolf volunteers to read anything he wants an opinion on only the once, and then waits with remarkable patience until Oscar gets over his peculiar hit of nerves.

The weather has turned cool by the time he feels happy with his first draft, pushing back from the desk with a faint laugh of disbelief. He floats on apprehensive feet from the warmth of his office to the welcoming glow of the kitchen.

“Zolf?” 

The dwarf looks up from the pan of fragrant flavours with a curious smile, which turns tender as he sees the carefully piled papers in Oscar’s hands.

“I was wondering if you might take a look. There’s still a lot of work to do but I—.”

“Of course.” Zolf cuts him off, which is a mercy in itself. “After dinner?”

Oscar nods, sets the papers down on the kitchen table and pulls up a chair to sit just out of the way. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Zolf just smiles. “Open that wine, the one that Azu sent. Seems like a time to celebrate.”

They share a meal and multiple glasses of wine as Oscar unloads all of his anxieties and processes with a frantic sort of relief. Zolf is attentive, asks all the right questions and once the meal is over, sets a gentle hand on his work. 

“Would you like me to go somewhere alone?” He asks. “Or d’you wanna watch me read?”

Oscar truly doesn’t know which is worse.

They end up cuddled together on the settee in front of the fire, Oscar wedged happily in the corner with a blanket over his lap and Zolf sat perpendicular, tired legs out along the rest of the cushions, back against his chest. 

Oscar tries to read his own book, but it is nigh on impossible. He catalogues each of Zolf’s laughs, his sighs, his little scratches of pencil like they are gifts from the gods themselves. He has always cared about his audience but he has _never_ cared more about impressing someone before.

At one point he hears Zolf clear his throat, watches in mute astonishment as he brings a finger up to brush under his eyes.

“Zolf...”

“Shh.” Is all he gets in return, and he hides his smile in a swipe of his hand and hooks his arm more firmly around his husband’s chest.

It is _very_ late by the time Zolf gives a long, loaded exhale and folds the papers all together. “Oscar. This is... “ He trails off, obviously searching for the right words. “ _Everything_.”

His heart does a silly little flutter in his chest. “Yeah?”

Zolf nods, his beard brushing against Oscar’s forearm. He laughs quietly, catching up Oscar’s hand and bringing it to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss to the palm. “It’s our story.” 

Zolf whispers it like a secret into his skin and he feels the meaning of it like a jolting brand. His throat gets all tight with emotion and he stifles something that might be a sob into the back of Zolf’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” He whispers, hiding his face in Zolf’s throat and not stopping to apologise for the wetness of his tears.

“No, Oscar. Thank _you_.”


End file.
